


Warrior Prince Buff Dude

by Snits



Category: Red Dwarf (UK TV)
Genre: Bullying, Can be read as pre-slash, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Suicide Attempt, and it's SORT of Rimmer/OMC, but no actual relationships occur in any real sense if you see what i mean, it's sort of Rimster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snits/pseuds/Snits
Summary: For at least four nights in a row, Rimmer had been sneaking out of bed at half past three in the morning, ship's time. On the fifth, Lister followed.Lister butts his nose into something that really isn't his business.
Relationships: Arnold Rimmer/Original Male Character(s), Dave Lister/Arnold Rimmer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Warrior Prince Buff Dude

For at least four nights in a row, Rimmer had been sneaking out of bed at half past three in the morning, ship's time. On the fifth, Lister followed. 

He had never been good at getting up in the morning. That was partially why his sneaking out was so interesting. What could possibly lure Rimmer out of his bed in the middle of the night? Lister slid soundlessly out of his bunk, dropping like a cat on to his bare feet. He let Rimmer get a little ahead of him, following the click of his boots on the durasteel floors. By comparison, his feet, though cold, made almost no sound at all. 

Rimmer was making his way down to recreation, in a determined, single-minded line. There would be, Lister thought gleefully, no attempting to tell Lister he was just 'walking', that he couldn't sleep. This was Rimmer on a mission; he was going Somewhere, and to do something he was too embarrassed to let anyone know about, or he wouldn't be doing it when he thought everyone else was asleep. He didn't seem to get that none of them remotely cared what he did or where he went. 

Lister heard Rimmer's voice softly requesting the lights to forty percent. Ahead, a dim glow blossomed out into the dark corridor, and Lister recognised where they were; the AR suite. Lister grinned. This was certain to be good; Rimmer himself had said that the only thing the ARs were good for was having a wank. He hung back, waiting for Rimmer to get good and invested in whatever he was doing. Once he heard the clunk of the machinery dropping into place, he snuck forwards. 

Rimmer was strapped into one of the machines, his head slightly on the side, and very much helpless. Lister grinned, edging past him to check the name on the game cartridge. The dim lighting was enough to read by, and no more; he did a little jig of glee when he read the title of a dating sim which had been popular while the rest of the crew were alive. Kochanski had used it, more than once; he remembered talking to her about it, asking her why she liked it so much. "Why do any of you girls like it?" He'd asked, as if the men on the ship didn't regularly use it for fantasy fucks. "It's not like they're real men." 

Kochanski's lip had curled. She was no idiot, and she wasn't about to spend her time arguing about it. "No," she agreed disdainfully, "do you know how I know that? They're polite and respectful, and none of them stink of curry."

Still grinning, Lister sat down in the other machine, reaching for the helmet. It felt absolutely dreamlike, the ship was mostly silent, but a warm, safe, sleepy silence, just the thrum of the engines and the whir of the machinery, along with the soft lights and the pleasant thought that he was about to get one up on Rimmer. He logged into the AR, and found himself abruptly in the desert. 

It was a desert of earth's past, if it had ever existed at all. There was a fairytale look about it, rather cleaner and more glamorous than a real desert camp. The only tent there was cream canvas, with silks in vibrant colours shading the entrance, and a worn Persian-style rug which led into it. Lister rubbed his hands together, confident that he would find Rimmer looking impossibly, ridiculously buff, probably reading a book of rules and regulations to a poor, simulated princess, who would be programmed to behave as if she enjoyed it. It was only fair to rescue her, Lister thought wickedly, since he had never been able to resist a damsel in distress. 

The air was so hot, it felt like a physical blow, and around him, the world was shimmering, swimming with heat. He staggered across the burning sand, leaping hurriedly for the Persian rug and the shade of the tent's awning. He danced on it for a second, swearing under his breath. There was no sound coming from within, not even Rimmer's nasal drone. Lister twitched aside the tent flap, but the light from the sun was so powerful, the dim interior of the tent was too dark to see. He ducked in, slightly regretting his decision to follow Rimmer in the first place. His physical feet weren't actually scorched, but the sensation was very convincing. 

Someone was speaking, he realised. Someone with a quiet, accented voice, certainly not Rimmer, but definitely male. "Jackpot," he mouthed to himself, beginning to grin again. He edged closer to the voice, listening hard. 

"Arnie," the man was saying softly, soothingly, "how long must we do this before you trust me?"

Interesting, Lister thought, so he has a save history. 

"I know," Rimmer's voice mumbled. "I know, I'm sorry, I wa--I _want_ \--" The word was imbued with so much longing, it made Lister's heart ache a little for him. He heard Rimmer take a deep, shaky breath. "It's just...I feel like someone could walk in any second, I just don't feel--"

"Arnie," the man interrupted gently, "who could walk in?"

It was perhaps the funniest moment the both of them could have looked up and seen Lister pushing aside a curtain to look at them, if the situation had been at all funny. On a bed heaped with embroidered cushions, and draped with yet more thin veils, Rimmer was leaning yearningly towards a man Lister recognised from descriptions given to him by female crew members some three million years previously. He was meant to be a warrior prince, or something like it; he was built, shirtless but wearing high-waisted, loose trousers and embroidered slippers. His silk turban was flying like a flag across the floor, and his unbound hair fell in long, black waves over his muscular back. He was impossibly handsome, and he had his fingers hooked around Rimmer's knee. 

Rimmer, on the other hand, was in a uniform. He had no 'H' on his forehead, but there was something else different about him--perhaps he was a little younger, or thinner, or taller. Perhaps there was a touch of paint about his face; his eyes seemed darker, or bigger; maybe there was more colour in his cheeks or his lips than usual. But the main thing was that his trousers were kicked off, and apart from his half-unbuttoned Space Corps shirt, he was wearing stockings and suspenders.

"Holy shit," Lister exclaimed, beginning to laugh, mostly out of embarrassment, "oh my _God!_ " The warrior-prince-guy stood up quickly, reaching reflexively for a sword not at his waist. Rimmer went absolutely dead white; Lister had never seen anyone go so white in his life. He looked horrified, like he was about to throw up, and before anything else could happen, he was gone, fading out of digital existence. 

The warrior man looked at Lister with heavily kohled eyes. "You have fucked up," he said, in his slow, deep voice. The game dissolved into pixels, and then to black; Lister blinked back into reality as the headset raised. Rimmer was scrambling out of his machine, clumsy with haste, the noise he was making woke Lister out of his AR disorientation faster than normal. "Rimmer," he said vaguely, and then, more firmly, "Rimmer!"

"How dare you--" Rimmer spluttered, "How _dare_ \--"

He was already half way out of the room, but when Lister spoke, he came reeling around, almost as if he were drunk. He started striding back towards Lister, appeared to think better of it, and paced back a few steps, thought again, and came back. This he did several times, until Lister realised that he wasn't seeing distortion in Rimmer's lightbee, and it wasn't the dim, reddish light making Rimmer look like he was shaking. He actually was shaking. 

"Rimmer, man," he held up his hands appeasingly, "calm down, it was just a joke!" 

"Shut up!" Rimmer snapped, "just shut up!" He wrung his hands as he paced. "Don't ever mention this again, Lister," he blurted suddenly. "Not to the Cat, not to Kryten, and not to me."

"What are you talking about?" Lister laughed, leaning out of his AR machine. "Rimmer, it was just a joke, for God's sake! Calm down!" 

"Lister, I mean it--"

"Look, it was just a bit of fun. I mean, I admit I didn't expect to find you with Warrior-Prince-Buff-Guy, but still," he shrugged, loose and easy over the edge of the machine. "I can't actually say I'm all that surprised, I always got a bit of a vibe from you."

Rimmer stopped, wheeling to look at Lister with an expression of such hatred on his face, Lister sat back in alarm. "I am not," he hissed, his fists clenched, "not now, nor have I ever been, a homosexual. And if you tell the others--"

"Rimmer," Lister appealed laughingly, holding out his hands. "Are you kidding? I just saw you with a man's fingers hooked around your knee while you were wearing stockings and suspenders, I think that probably qualifies you as having at least some homosexual urges." 

"Shut up," Rimmer said tightly, "and do not dare tell the others, Lister, I'm warning you--"

"What?" Lister shrugged, "I thought you looked pretty good in those stockings." He fired a charming grin at Rimmer, or at least, he thought so. The lighting was dim, and all he could see of Rimmer's eyes were thin, glittering slits filled with malice. 

"Never mention this again, Lister. I mean it." Those narrowed eyes held Lister's in a hard stare for a moment, and then Rimmer left, in as hurried and weaselly a scuttle as he had ever used. Lister blew out a breath, falling back against the chair in his AR machine. "What a dope," he muttered to himself, running a hand over his face. He levered himself up and padded back to their shared room, expecting to find Rimmer pretending to be asleep, but Rimmer's bed was empty. Cold, and mystery solved anyway, Lister climbed into his bunk. 

*

Rimmer was still missing the following morning, though it was unusual for him to be up before noon. Lister headed up for breakfast, nonchalantly assuming he would be licking his wounds somewhere, or possibly relieving his feelings by shouting at the Cat. In fact, when the door to the mess slid open, he found Rimmer hunched, red-eyed, over the table, nursing a cup of tea. "Oh," he said in surprise. Then, friendlier, "morning, Rimsy."

He flicked the switch on the kettle, wondering absently where Kryten was, and whether he could be prevailed upon for a bacon sandwich. Rimmer made no reply, except to sip moodily from his mug. The silence festered. Lister never could stand a tense silence, and he hated it when Rimmer wasn't talking to him, anyway. "So, about last night," he began, loudly. 

Rimmer slammed his mug down, slopping tea over his hand and the table. He whipped his head around, checking hurriedly that there was nobody else in the room. "I told you," he said, through gritted teeth, "never to mention it again."

"Yeah, I know, but like, you never told me why," Lister said, as annoyingly casual as he knew how to be. The kettle clicked; he turned away to pour the water into a mug. "Lister, this is your final smegging warning," Rimmer said, in a low, trembling voice. Lister looked at him in surprise; Rimmer was more hunched over than ever, his body rigid with tension, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "Seriously, what's the problem?" Lister asked, now a little concerned. "You do more embarrassing things before breakfast, most days."

"Lister."

"You're a gay dude with a harmless little kink," Lister continued blithely, as though Rimmer hadn't spoken, "that's actually the least humiliating thing about you. If anything, it improves you, makes you more interesting."

Rimmer shot up from the table; the sudden movement made Lister jump back in alarm. "I am _not_ ," he hissed, "and it is not harmless, it is disgusting, and demeaning, and degrading, and--and--" He was shaking again, his breathing raspy and audible. "Rimmer, for smeg's sake, calm down, man!" Lister said, seriously alarmed. It wasn't often that Rimmer had panic attacks in front of him, but Lister knew one when he saw one. Rimmer was staring at his hands, or possibly between them, at the floor, his chest heaving. 

"Look, I'm not going to tell anyone," Lister told him soothingly. "But what's got you so scared? I don't care if you're gay. I don't care if you like wearing a full lingerie set and a gimp mask. Kryten won't care, and the only way the Cat will take any notice is if you want to date him, and who would want to do that? Rimmer," he walked over, ducking low to catch Rimmer's eyes. "Your parents aren't here, neither are your brothers. Can't you just let yourself be who you are?"

There was such fear in Rimmer's bloodshot eyes as he held Lister's for a brief second. "There's nobody here but me," Lister said encouragingly, "can't you be yourself with me?"  
Rimmer shoved him away, hands flying to his hair to clutch at his curls. "Just leave me alone," he said stiffly, "and don't tell the others." Lister sighed, prepared to argue further, but Rimmer was already walking out of the room. 

*

"Holly," Lister said, after hours of deep thought. He had his feet up on the console, and he was staring out at the stars flying past as silvery streaks in inky darkness. "Dave," Holly replied sedately. "Where can I get a pair of stockings? Or hold ups?" 

"Is it Rimmer's birthday already?" Holly asked. Lister laughed, "so you knew about it?"

"When are you fellas gonna learn. I know everything. I have an IQ of 6000," Holly said monotonously. "Of course I know about his little fetish. Who cares?" 

"Well, that's what I said," Lister agreed, taking a swig from his can of lager. "But he's being all paranoid and weird about it, as usual, so I'm going to get him a pair in real life just so I can show him that nobody is bothered, and he can stop living a lie. Genius, right?"

There was a short pause. "That's not the word I'd use," Holly said mildly. "No, trust me on this one, Hol," Lister said confidently, "he didn't look bad in them, you know? I'm gonna show him he doesn't have to pretend with us."

"Whatever you say, Dave."

*

Lister was in his bunk when Rimmer came back, after two days of skulking about the ship rather than sit in the same room as him. It was late, by ship's time; probably Rimmer was hoping Lister would be asleep, but at the very least, Lister wouldn't question him going straight to bed. He came in as though he had coached himself to do it, back straight and face set--his eyes were fixed forwards, resolutely not looking at Lister. He looked like shit; Rimmer didn't have to sleep, technically, but his hard-light body was designed to make him feel as human as possible, and so it reacted in realistic, human ways. He didn't actually look as bad as a living human would after walking the halls of a giant mining space vessel ceaselessly for two days, but he looked pretty exhausted. 

Dressed in clean, standard-issue pyjamas, with Kryten's sharp creases still ironed in the front of the trousers, he tugged back his duvet, and immediately froze still. Lister dog eared the corner of his magazine and watched interestedly. Rimmer took in a sharp, audible breath through his impressive nostrils, and said, "you _bastard_." 

"What?" Lister asked innocently, blinking at him. Rimmer snatched up the packet of nude hold ups and flung them at him, his face scarlet with rage. "Think that's funny, do you?" He snarled, "something else to use to make fun of stupid old Rimmer?" 

"No!" Lister protested, holding his hands up. "I asked you to forget it, literally to take no action, make no effort whatsoever," Rimmer ranted, "and that was too much trouble? Non-action is usually your forte, but in this case, you just decided that it was too good an opportunity to pass up?" 

Lister rolled his eyes, "Rimmer, I got you them because I want you to be comfortable wearing them--"

"Why?" Rimmer demanded, "why should I be? It's none of your smegging business whether I'm comfortable or not, Lister, I asked you to stay out of it!" 

"And sit here watching you make yourself miserable?" Lister snapped, losing his temper. He hopped down from his bunk, squaring up to Rimmer as if he were about to fight him. "And you didn't 'ask' me to do anything, Rimmer."

"No, you're right," Rimmer agreed sarcastically, "I told you. I should've known, telling you has never worked either, even though I'm your superior officer, you have never followed a single order in your life--"

"Rimmer, I'm trying to help you, you gimboid. Nobody cares what you wear or who you fancy. I got you these to prove to you that you can be who you are--"

"Those," Rimmer yelled, his lip curling in revulsion, "are not who I am!" Lister scoffed, reaching up to grab them from his bunk, where they'd landed after Rimmer threw them at him. "Put them on then," he said, shoving them at Rimmer, who held his hands up as if Lister was trying to hand him a dead rat. "Go on, I dare you. Prove to me it's nothing to put them on."

Rimmer's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth hanging open idiotically. "Go on," Lister said, jabbing him with them. 

"I--no! I don't have to prove anything to you!"

Lister scoffed. "The only thing that's dirty and demeaning is your blatant homophobia," he said disgustedly, as Rimmer climbed into his bunk. "You want this, this harmless little thing, and you won't let yourself have it because you're full of hate and bitterness--"

"So leave me alone!" Rimmer shouted, "if I'm so awful, leave me alone!" 

"No," Lister shoved him back on to his bunk. "I am not going to leave you alone, I'm gonna show you that you wearing a Goddamn pair of tights isn't going to make the universe explode!"

Rimmer was tall, but Lister was stocky and heavy. After a struggle, which Lister won, he planted himself firmly on Rimmer's back, keeping him pinned to the bed. "Get off me!" Rimmer howled, outraged, "Lister!!" 

"Yeah, yeah," Lister drawled, "keep shouting, see where it gets you." He grabbed one of Rimmer's flailing ankles, and, tearing open the packet of hold ups with his teeth, shook the stockings out on to the bed. Rimmer seemed to freeze with shock as Lister clumsily forced the toe of the stocking over Rimmer's foot. "Stop it," he croaked, "Lister, stop it!" He started bucking, trying to throw Lister off, but although his lightbee tried to simulate his body, hard-light was never a match for flesh and blood. Lister laughed, tugging the stocking up Rimmer's leg. "Ugh, look a bit better if you shaved your legs, man," he remarked, "smeg, I've put me finger through it. How do girls do this?" 

"Lister, stop it!" Rimmer screamed, "get off me, _get off--!!_ "

"One down!" Lister announced cheerfully, over Rimmer's noise, "one to go! Or are you upset I said 'girls'? How do boys do it?"

"I swear to God, Lister, you'd better get off me right now--!"

"There we are!" Lister said, triumphant, "two stockings. Is the world ending? Do you see the light of an exploding sun?" He flicked his fingernail along the arch of Rimmer's foot, as if to emphasise his point. Rimmer's screaming was choked off abruptly, in a deep, gutteral noise; almost a groan. Lister's eyebrows shot up. "Woah," he said, doing it again. Rimmer's whole body jerked; Lister had thought he was tense before, now his back contracted so that it was like sitting on a board, but he kept quiet. Glancing behind him, Lister saw his face was buried in his pillow, his hands clenched in fists, but his ears were glowing scarlet. "This really gets you off, then," Lister smirked. 

He rubbed the ball of his thumb along the high arch, holding Rimmer's leg by his ankle--a surprisingly neat and pretty ankle. Lister began to laugh, reality dawning. "You like this because you think they're your best feature, don't you? When there was nothing else, at least you had long legs." He snickered. It was a genuinely pleasing thing to wring an authentic reaction out of someone who spent so much time staying as closed up as possible. And it was kind of a little sexy. Even if it _was_ Rimmer. "You narcissistic bastard, you'd give the Cat a run for his money," Lister teased, "although, it's true you've always had good pins." He tickled the sole of Rimmer's foot playfully, but Rimmer was still so painfully tense, he was starting to tremble. 

"Rimmer, man, relax!" Lister said laughingly, "maybe start wearing these on a daily basis; the lack of repression might make you less of an unlikeable smeghead." He glanced back again. 

His grin dropped. Rimmer had turned his head to face the wall, and though his expression was utterly blank, there were tears pouring silently over the bridge of his nose and soaking dark patches into the pillow under his head. "Rimmer?" Lister asked, choking on his shock. He scrambled away from Rimmer, up and out of the bunk, as if Rimmer had suddenly become poisonous to the touch. And Rimmer, he simply turned on his side and curled up. 

Lister stared at him, mouth agape. Rimmer's pyjama trousers were shoved up to his thighs, and the laddered stockings were sloppily put on, hanging off at the toes and twisted around his knees. They certainly didn't look the way they had in the AR suite; Rimmer's long legs angled to their best advantage, lacy tops at equal height, seams perfectly straight. Lister could clearly see the red marks on Rimmer's legs where he'd been held down. He was just lying there, curled up, shaking but soundless, as if he were trying to play dead. 

He looked like he'd been attacked. 

He looked like _Lister_ had attacked him. 

"Rimmer," Lister said, his voice soft with horror. "Rimmer, man, I was only--it was just--" 

He stepped closer to the bed again, and either Rimmer heard him, or sensed the movement, because he flinched, twitching towards the wall, away from Lister. Then, he froze, his shoulders hunched and waiting for the next attack. "Okay," Lister croaked. His throat ached; he wanted to cry. "Okay, I'm not going to touch you. Are you--I mean--aw, Rimmer, I'm really sorry. I was only teasing you." 

"Go away," Rimmer said. His voice was quiet, thick with tears, but perfectly even. "I can't just leave you like this," Lister protested. There was a long pause; Lister heard Rimmer's throat closing around a hard swallow in the silence. "Please," Rimmer said finally, his voice small and cracked. "Please." 

Lister felt sick. "Okay," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Rimsy." 

No reply. Lister walked shakily out and closed the door behind him.

*

"Kryten!" 

"Mr Lister, sir," Kryten's hands fluttered out of their habitual neat fold, like worried butterflies. "Whatever's the matter?"

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Lister gasped, clutching the stitch in his side. "I need you to go and check on Rimmer!"

There was a slightly disdainful pause. "Must I?" Kryten said, and then hastily corrected himself, "is that wise, sir?" 

Lister shook his head, still gasping for air. "Please, Kryten. I have smegged up so badly, and he was crying when I left. Please, please go and check up on him." 

Kryten had no eyebrows to raise, but his eyes widened and his optical camera lenses contracted sharply. "He was _crying?_ " He repeated incredulously. He took Lister's arm and gently helped him into a chair. "Wait a moment, sir, I'll get you a glass of water--" he began, but Lister grabbed at him, and held him back. "No, Krytes, I don't deserve it," he wheezed out. "Honestly, I've really done it this time. Just go and make sure he's okay, will you?"

"I will, sir," Kryten said dubiously, "but perhaps it would be wise to tell me what it is you've done that's so terrible? Perhaps I can fix it." 

Lister shook his head again, hopelessly. "No, it's nothing that can be fixed. And I promised I wouldn't tell anyone. Please, just go and make sure he's okay. Take him some tea or something." 

When Kryten returned, his angular, mechanoid face looked troubled, insofar as it could emote. "He's the acting senior officer on the ship, and he's locked the door," he told Lister worriedly, "I couldn't override it. But, Mr Lister, when I pressed my parabolic sensors to the wall, I could hear him sobbing like his heart was breaking." 

*

Nobody could get back into their shared room for hours. When, unexpectedly, the door swept open at Lister's approach, all that was in the room was Rimmer's pyjamas and the hold ups, left on the bed in the position of his body, like he had melted out of them. Or like he'd turned his bee to soft-light, and walked away through the walls. Rimmer hated soft-light; he couldn't touch, couldn't feel, couldn't interact with the world in any way which made sense to him, only float through it like a frustrated ghost. Lister sat down on the empty bunk and picked up the ruined tights. He felt, somehow, simultaneously hollow, and like he had something had compacted in his chest, concrete or a fat-berg. He knuckled at the space between his ribs, trying to ease it. It didn't help at all. 

Lister screwed the hold ups into a ball, intending to hurl them into the nearest incinerator. "Holly," he said miserably. 

"Wotcha, Dave," Holly replied laconically. "Do you know where Rimmer is?" Lister asked, without the usual pleasantries. "Can you tell if he's okay?"

"I can track his lightbee," Holly said thoughtfully, "I expect. Nobody's ever wanted to find Rimmer before. Oh, yeah, there he is, he's--"

"Don't tell me!" Lister interrupted loudly, stuffing his fingers into his ears. "If I know, I'll just want to go and find him, and he wants to be on his own. I just want to know if he's okay."

"I'll ask him," Holly remarked, and vanished before Lister could speak. After a few seconds, the face appeared back in the glowing screen and Holly said, "no, Dave. I wouldn't say he's particularly okay."

*

After two weeks, still nobody had seen Rimmer. Holly knew where he was, but nobody asked. Lister felt sick at the idea of being alone in a room again with him, having to apologise, having Rimmer flinch away from him, and plead with him to leave again. Kryten was bearing it philosophically--he was concerned for Rimmer as a human being (sort of), but without the evidence in front of him, he tended to forget Rimmer, probably because his life was a lot easier without him. The Cat simply did not care at all. 

"How did you get rid of goalpost head?" He'd asked, rolling over in one fluid, feline motion to look at Lister upside down from one of the work surfaces in the science room. "Share the knowledge, man. If he comes back and he won't talk to you, that just leaves me, and I don't want him dribbling on my outfits." He flicked his fingernails over his immaculate cuffs, and Lister, remembering how he had flicked his nails across Rimmer's instep, cringed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Please, Cat, be nicer to Rimmer, okay? I did something horrible, and he doesn't deserve you being horrible, too."

"Uh, yes, he does," the Cat contradicted languidly. 

At the beginning of the third week, Lister saw him. One of the hangar deck doors had been open for weeks without any of them noticing, and Holly had only just thought it was necessary to tell them that the mechanism by which it was kept locked was jammed. "Nice one, Hol, if one of us had gone down there for a quick spot of maintenance on _Starbug,_ we'd have been sucked into the infinitesimal void of deep space," Lister snapped, irritable with constant worry. Wearing a space suit and a life line, he walked out into the hangar with Kryten close behind, holding a toolkit. 

Rimmer was sitting right in front of the open doors, a tiny figure on the floor of the hangar, staring out into space. His scarlet outfit denoted his soft-light status; indeed he was almost transparent. Lister thought he could see stars through Rimmer's back. He froze, like he had seen a rare wild animal, and was afraid to move, for fear of scaring it. Kryten walked into his back. "Mr Lister, what's--"

Although Rimmer couldn't hear them, what with the endless vacuum of space yawning before them, Lister still shushed Kryten, his eyes fixed on the back of Rimmer's curly head. "Go and speak to him," he whispered through their comms link, tugging Kryten in front of himself. 

"Surely, sir, it would be better if you--"

"Kryten, man, don't argue, just do it," Lister said, giving him a gentle push towards Rimmer. Kryten spared him one exasperated look before he went. 

He tried to touch Rimmer's shoulder, unthinkingly, but his hand passed straight through. Lister saw him shake his head and take a few awkward, mechanoid side-steps so that he was in Rimmer's line of vision. 

Rimmer recoiled in surprise; perhaps he, too, had forgotten that Kryten couldn't touch him. Lister saw Kryten pointing, and had just a few seconds to feel panic rising like a tidal surge as Rimmer's head turned stiffly to look at him. Their eyes met, very briefly. Rimmer dropped his gaze immediately, and, scrambling up from the floor, walked straight through the nearest wall. "He looked like he was scared of me," Lister said miserably, through the comms. 

*

By the fourth week, Lister felt constantly sick, and constantly worried, as though something terrible was about to happen. He had poor bouts of interrupted sleep, and could barely stomach even the most tolerable of his choice in foods, and he was always on edge, snapping at the Cat, or Holly, or Kryten. He was forgetting things, misplacing things, feeling exhausted all day and then unable to sleep at night. 

He missed Rimmer. 

Of everyone on Red Dwarf (all four of them), Rimmer was actually the easiest person to hold a conversation with. Kryten's constant 'yes sir'-ing wore thin after a while, the Cat was only really interested in talking about himself, and Holly was as loopy as a slinky in a tumble dryer. The constant worry and misery made it worse even than the time he had gone off to become Ace. 

At the beginning of the fifth week, Kryten found him slumped over the table in the mess, cooling his feverish forehead, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He's on A deck," he said kindly. "This has gone on long enough, Mr Lister, sir." 

A deck was the officers' quarters, which Lister supposed figured. There were actual windows, proper beds rather than bunks, and each room was individual--no sharing for officers. Lister wondered why it had never occurred to either of them to move up there, to have their own luxury rooms, but in the unfamiliar world of three million years into the future and deep space, their room was the closest thing to home Lister had. And all of his stuff was there. Rimmer, though, was the kind of person who would have made the trek up into A deck. Why hadn't he? He didn't have much by way of possessions, just his stupid camphor chest. 

There was a dome in the central staircase. Lister should've known this ship was bad news, it looked like a high-tech _Titanic._ Red Dwarf's scarlet exterior boxed it in, but standing in the middle, looking straight up, it was possible to see the stars. If there had been any justice at all, that's where Lister would've found Rimmer, standing beneath the dome like Leonardo di Caprio. Instead, he had to ask Holly. 

"He's on the observation deck."

"There's an observation deck?"

There was. It was through a door marked 'Observation Deck', which had a small, enclosed staircase, and theoretically, it was in an area where anyone on the ship could access it, but in practice, somewhere nobody but officers would've known about. Opening the door at the top of the staircase, Lister couldn't suppress a low whistle of admiration. It was like a giant greenhouse, another reinforced bubble dome, but this time the view was totally unimpeded. It was like a blister on the side of the ship; there was no floor, just clear plexiglass with a view into dizzying infinity. There were no lights; only the stars streaming past, and an enormous, brightly coloured nebula on their port side, lovelier than any sunset. And there was Rimmer, a small figure, curled up. 

Lister's mouth was dry with fear as he approached. Rimmer's eyes were closed; he looked curiously young. Like the man Lister had surprised in the dating sim. 

"Rimmer," he called softly. 

"What," Rimmer replied, without opening his eyes. 

Lister's throat ached, and his heart was hammering out of control. "I'm sorry," he said, "please come back downstairs." 

Rimmer's eyes opened, staring straight out into space. "No, thank you," he said quietly, "I think I like it better up here."

Lister dropped to the floor beside him, shoving his hands through his hair. "Please, Rimmer," he begged, "I really miss you. I'm sorry I--about what I did, I was just teasing you, I swear. I didn't mean to scare you." 

Beside him, Rimmer sighed, slowly pushing himself up. "What you meant to do," he said steadily, "was whatever you wanted. Because you're stronger than me, and you could, and I'm just stupid old Rimmer, and this was just something else for you to use against me." He was quite matter-of-fact, as if it didn't bother him. His eyes, reflecting the light from the nebula, stared straight out, as if he'd seen something fascinating out there in the darkness. "No," Lister said unhappily, "what I wanted to do was to show you that it doesn't matter to me who you fancy or what you wear. I was trying to be kind, I swear." 

"It didn't feel kind," Rimmer said softly. "But then, how would I know, Lister? Even dogs are given a little scrap of something to sniff so they know what they're looking for. How am I meant to tell the difference between the kindness of humiliating someone, versus the cruelty of humiliating someone? All I can tell you is, it didn't feel kind."

Lister swallowed, his eyes beginning to burn. "I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "I'm sorry."

Rimmer tipped his head back, closing his eyes. "Don't be," he murmured. "I should be thanking you. Every time someone did something like that to me at school, I wished I could just be untouchable, just be invisible--just like a ghost, a dead person." Here, at last, he turned utterly impassive eyes on Lister. "Like a fish, in an aquarium, unnoticeable. And I remembered, now I can be. I would rather never be touched again than be touched like that. So, thank you."

"That's--" Lister spluttered, horrified, "Rimmer, that's terrible, please, come back downstairs, let's talk about this!" 

"No."

"Rimmer, please," Lister couldn't help but feel panicked; his hands were trembling. "Please, man, you're my best friend!"

"No, I'm not," Rimmer answered, "you just want me to come back with you so you can stop feeling guilty. Because, despite being a total smeg-head, you're not actually a bad person." He gave Lister a small smile. "So don't worry, you can stop feeling guilty." His eyes were spangled with reflected starlight. "Thanks for apologising, Listy," he smiled, and Lister realised that Rimmer's hand was closed around his lightbee, his thumb was on the button, and just like that, he was gone. 

The lightbee clattered to the floor. 

*

Lister carried it--him-- _it_ downstairs, carefully cradled in his hands, like a little boy who finds a dead bird and takes it home to his parents to fix. He carried it down to Kryten, with tears pouring down his face. "Hey, great," the Cat said cheerfully, not noticing Lister's face, and poking instead at the inert bee. "Oh, Mr Lister, sir," Kryten fluttered, ineffectually, "oh, I am sorry, what a terrible thing to happen--"

"Neither of you liked him," Lister choked, feeling suddenly furious on Rimmer's behalf, "neither of you care! Stop pretending--"

"Who's pretending?" The Cat interrupted, "I _didn't_ like him. And he's dead anyway, bud. What are you getting so upset about? Just turn him back on if you loved him that much." Kryten made a face, and, pointing his finger, shone a little bead of light at the far wall. The Cat's pupils widened delightedly, and he skittered off. "Mr Lister," Kryten said gently, as Lister dropped into a chair. "What happened?"

So Lister told him. From the start, Lister told him everything that had happened. He wondered if Rimmer could hear him, or if he had so totally shut himself down that he no longer saw and heard from the lightbee. He wondered if Rimmer cared he was telling Kryten--he had cared at first, hadn't he? Don't talk to anyone about it, including me? And yet there Lister was, betraying him, again. Lister pressed his fingers into his eyes, shivering into the silence which followed his confession. "Well," Kryten said, after a while, "I agree your methods were a little heavy-handed, sir," he said dubiously. "But his reaction is hardly surprising, considering the last time we saw him in stockings and suspenders. He obviously considers it something to be very ashamed of."

Lister's head came up. "What?" He sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Kryten winced, but in his lack of reaction, Lister saw, with a pang of grief, exactly how Rimmer would have overreacted. He saw the flare of nostrils in his mind's eye. "Well," Kryten said tactfully, "do you recall the time we used the triplicator and created two additional Red Dwarfs, populated by our high and low selves? 

"Oh, yeah," Lister said slowly, "oh, yeah, he _was_ wearing stockings." He considered this, quietly, for a moment, until another thought struck him. "Kryten, he said he was going to lash me, and then he was going to 'have' me," he said, wide-eyed. "Am I being an idiot, or did--does Rimmer--like me?"

"Yes on both counts, sir," Kryten said, sounding as though he was proud of Lister finally working it out. Lister gaped at him, poleaxed. "You knew?" He yelped, looking down at the bee cradled in his palm, wondering again if Rimmer could hear them. Kryten's mouth stretched, the closest he could come to a smile. "Mr Lister, sir, in many ways, Mr Rimmer is not a difficult person to work out."

"Well, I wish you'd told me!" Lister exclaimed. Then, looking down again at the bee, added, "or that he'd told me." 

"I think it should be obvious now that Mr Rimmer is ashamed of how he feels for you," Kryten said gravely, looking down at the bee as well. "All these years," Lister murmured sadly. "Poor Rimmer." He sighed, gently placing the bee on the table so that he could press the heels of his hands into his sore eyes. "That makes what I did about a hundred times worse." 

Kryten patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, it does," he agreed sympathetically, but not very helpfully. Lister groaned. "What am I gonna do, Krytes?"

*

In the end, Lister went to talk to the only person aboard who might have some insight or interest in talking about Rimmer. Kryten's answer, to let Rimmer come back of his own accord, did not sit well with Lister. Perhaps Rimmer was wrong about him; maybe non-action was the most difficult thing for him to accomplish after all. He never could leave well enough alone. 

He asked Holly for Rimmer's saved file with the dating sim, and logged in during the middle of the night. It didn't really make sense, Kryten didn't need to sleep, and the Cat kept unreasonable hours, and would often skitter up and down the halls at high speed for no discernable reason. The only person Lister would have been guaranteed not to meet was Rimmer, and yet it felt safer, somehow, with the ship's lights set to night mode, and everyone else expecting him to be asleep in bed. 

The desert was hotter than he remembered. The veils and hangings of the tent were still blowing in a simulated breeze which brought no relief whatsoever from the heat; it was a dry, burning, dusty wind. Lister ducked under the awning hastily, glad to be out of the glare of the sun. Inside, the warrior-prince buff dude was there, turban fluttered across the floor, just in the process of combing out his long, dark hair. The air smelled of rosemary and jasmine, sweet and sharp all at the same time. As he heard Lister's footsteps, he straightened up, turning towards him with a smile. 

"Oh," he said warily, with clear recognition. Lister guessed Rimmer's games were on autosave. 

Lister pushed his hands into his pockets before he realised that Rimmer's lightbee wouldn't have been projected into the game with him. "Er, I'm Dave Lister, Rimm--Arnie's friend. Listen, I need to talk to you about him, he's in kind of a bad way." 

"Because of what you did," the buff guy said bluntly. Lister winced. "Actually, because of what I did after that," he admitted reluctantly. He told the story as quickly and unflinchingly as he could, but it didn't really make it any less horrible--and he saw the look on Buff Guy's face. When he was done, he stood fidgeting like a boy in the headmaster's office, while the Buff Guy sank down on the many pillows heaped across the bed, and blew out a long breath. "What do you expect me to do about this?" He asked, eventually. Lister sighed, sitting down on a heap of embroidered cushions on the floor. "Nothing," he said sadly, "but I thought you might know Rimmer better than anyone, and maybe--maybe you'd know how I could fix it."

Buff Guy shook his head. "I do not believe this is the kind of thing one can 'fix'," he said severely, and Lister cringed. "And you have hurt him more badly than you imagine," he continued blithely, as if he hadn't noticed--or, more likely, didn't care. "How do you mean?" Lister asked meekly, flinching when the Buff Guy leveled him with another stare out of those kohled eyes. "He never came to me for sex," he said quietly. "This is what I am programmed for, broadly, but the last time, the time you appeared, was the first time he had done anything remotely sexual with me, and it required _much_ encouragement."

Lister had the good sense to stay quiet while the dating sim seemed to be marshalling his thoughts. Or, perhaps, downloading saved data from the cloud. "At first, he could not touch me," he continued, at last. Lister's heart ached for him, his stupid, gangly, repressed friend. "He could barely look at me," Buff continued. "He only sat at my feet and stared at the floor, and he was here for hours, perhaps, in silence, though I asked him what he wanted, and said all the things I am programmed to say. And eventually," he opened his right hand, looking down at it almost affectionately, "eventually I simply put my hand on his head." He glanced up at Lister. "And he sighed, and he melted, and the tears came; I drew him closer and he rested his cheek against my knee just here," he touched the side of his right kneecap. 

"That's all it was, for a while. Little by little, I got him to speak, to touch, sometimes." He looked over at Lister again. "That's all he wanted, to be touched," he said softly. "He wanted to be held. Sometimes, he would cry, sometimes he would be silent. He wanted me to say nice things about him, occasionally. That he was handsome, or clever, that he had worked hard and done a good job." Buff shook his head musingly, as though in wonder that anyone's life could be so tragic. Lister wanted to cry, or throw up, or both. 

"Mainly, he wanted me to tell him he was good," Buff sighed, "that I didn't hate him." He looked Lister dead in the eyes, fixing him with that fierce, warrior stare. "There is a difference," he said succinctly, "that I hope you picked up on there, Dave Lister. He did not wish for me to tell him I loved him, or even that I liked him. Simply that I did not hate him. If I tried to tell him I loved him, he would stop me.

"But," he summarised, "he rarely asked me for anything. I gave him what my algorithm thought he wanted or needed, and he took whatever I gave, gratefully. I am a dating sim," Buff shook his head again, angrily this time. "I am not programmed to dole out scraps, I am programmed to be a banquet. He made me sad," he said abruptly, "a starving man with a banquet laid before him, and he simply dropped to his knees to beg for whatever I could spare." 

Lister couldn't take any more. He tapped out of the game, saw it pixellate and dissolve, and then, when the AR suite swam back into view, he sat up in his pod and sobbed.   
Later, alone, in their room, he took out Rimmer's bee and sat at the table with it in his hands. His head ached with crying, and he felt like utter shit, and all he could think to do was miserably turn the bee over and over in his hands, staring helplessly at it. "Come back, Rimmer," he said to it, softly. "Please."

Nothing happened. Lister left it on the table and took himself exhaustedly to bed. 

*

"Mr Lister, sir, it's time to get up."

"I'm not getting up today. Too tired."

"Mr Lister, this is the third day in a row. Don't you think you might feel better if you got up for a while?"

Did he? He felt too exhausted to move, too mind-numbed to think of anything at all. 

"And, Mr Lister, sleeping in Mr Rimmer's bunk--" Kryten faltered, clearly not knowing how to continue. Lister was, in fact, sleeping in Rimmer's bunk. It was the bottom bunk, easier to get into. He couldn't summon the energy to climb into his own. The bed didn't even smell like Rimmer--how could it? Holograms don't have a scent. Lister didn't know if that made it better or worse. 

Kryten was speaking again; Lister closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open. Kryten was still talking, but Lister couldn't hold the shape of his words long enough to keep their meaning. When he next opened his eyes, Kryten was gone, but Holly was looking down at him from the monitor on the wall, impassive as always. "Dave," Holly greeted him evenly. "I'm gonna do this one thing for you, okay? Don't screw it up." 

The lightbee hummed, rattling on the table in the same rickety way everything on _Red Dwarf_ seemed to behave. As light blossomed from it, Lister jerked upright in bed, and watched it hover on its own. Rimmer folded outwards from it, like a man stepping through a narrow door, dressed in red. He seemed disoriented, stumbling a little where he stood, and blinking owlishly, like he'd just been woken up. "Rimmer," Lister breathed, clawing the blankets away from his legs. "Lister?" Rimmer asked, bewildered. "What am I--how did I get here?" 

"You're welcome," Holly remarked dourly. 

"Holly!" Rimmer spluttered, "you can't just--I decided--"

"Rimmer," Lister said again, soft and amazed and frightened he was going to switch himself off again. Rimmer hesitated, looking over at him almost fearfully. Lister held up his hands as a gesture of peace, but he was still inching across the room. He knew he would go straight through Rimmer, but he couldn't help himself. "I missed you," he confessed. His heart was in his throat, and he could hear its fullness in his own voice. Rimmer scoffed silently, but didn't move away. "I did," Lister insisted, then, quieter, "I do. Please come back."

Rimmer sighed, looking away awkwardly. "I'm sorry for what I did," Lister continued. "I really hurt you. I scared you and I tortured you and you're right, I did it because I was stronger than you and I was angry, and I could. There is no excuse."

"No," Rimmer agreed quietly. "There isn't." 

"I don't hate you," Lister blurted out suddenly. Rimmer was surprised enough to look at him in the eyes. "I actually quite like you," Lister added, aware that Rimmer wouldn't believe a love confession. "And," he took a step closer, "I really did think you looked good in those stockings." 

Rimmer flinched at the word, but didn't move away. Emboldened, Lister took another step closer, stooping a little to intercept Rimmer's gaze from the floor. "You looked good," he said softly, lifting Rimmer's eyes with his own. "Rimmer, you looked good." He heard a shaky sigh as Rimmer backed away from him, his shoulders high and tense around his shoulders. Lister reached for him, knowing his hand would pass through, but reaching for him all the same. His finger brushed the light of Rimmer's, with nothing at all to signify the contact except a slight buzz of electricity. Rimmer stared down at their hands, dumbly. 

"Believe me on that, if you never believe another word I say," Lister said sincerely. Rimmer's head twitched, like he wanted to shake it. "Why are you doing this?" He asked confusedly. Lister smiled, a small, sad smile, but his first in weeks. "Because I like you," he said simply, "and it's true."

Rimmer did shake his head, dismissively, automatically starting to scoff. "No," he said dismissively, "you're doing this because of that--that thing Kryten said to you."

"What thing?"

"That stupid--it's not even _true_ \--that I--" he blustered, shrinking away from Lister even as he spoke, his face flaming red. How did the lightbee know when to simulate embarrassment like that? How did it know to send a flush to his face, to torture him with all of his old insecurities? "What thing?" He repeated, more gently. Rimmer shook his head, skirting the edge of the table, and Lister saw his hand dart to his chest, then disappear into his ribcage, like Napoleon with a hand in his waistcoat. "No--" Lister said, jerking forwards, and quickly stopping himself short, "no, Rimmer--"

"Lister, I don't--" Rimmer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "I'm not cut out for this world," he said eventually, softly. He glanced fearfully at Lister, as if he expected some kind of sarky comment--which, ordinarily, he would've gotten. "I was never...I never fit in anywhere. Nobody wanted me, not even me, and I'm not saying this because I'm fishing for compliments or because I want you to apologise any more, or feel bad about it. I'm saying it because I died three million years ago, Lister, and I'm jealous of myself. I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be here at all." 

"I want you," Lister said, recklessly. Rimmer gave another explosive sigh and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No, you--" he began, but Lister cut him off. "Shut up, Rimmer," he said loudly. "You were brought back as a hologram because you were the person I had the best connection with on the ship. You were brought here for me, because I need you, and I want you."

A pause.

"You wanted Kochanski," Rimmer said quietly, but not entirely hopelessly. 

"Lived with Kochanski," Lister declared, "it was miserable. We did not get on. We had nothing to talk about."

Rimmer looked at his hands, lying in his lap, palms up, like he was considering the weight of them. "Stay with me," Lister blurted, unable to keep quiet any longer. 

Rimmer glanced up at him. "I won't enjoy it," he said eventually, and he sounded tired to his bones. Lister reached out a hand to him, stopped when he realised he would do nothing but brush through Rimmer's shoulder. "Keep going to see that guy in AR," he insisted, low and urgent. Rimmer's eyes snapped to his, alight with fear again, and Lister hurriedly held up his hands. "Rimmer, I'm not going to make you talk about it, or...or do anything, or even bring it up again unless you want me to. I'm just saying...maybe you could enjoy it if you let yourself have this one thing."

He watched Rimmer's expression, but his face was unreadable. He looked lost, if anything at all. "Please stay," Lister added, "for me." 

There was a long pause, and then Rimmer sighed, turning his head away. "I hate you," he said softly.

**Author's Note:**

> At some point I'm sure I'll write something with a satisfying ending, but it is not this day.


End file.
